Drift

[I am not sure what to call this.  Drifting poetry perhaps? Each pair of sentences in this poem is independent of the preceding one. However the last word used in each pair links to the first word used in the next. And the final sentence links back to the first]


The path strewn with leaves of a hue brown,
the others green with envy await their fall.

A fall into water echoes far and wide
as ripples race to the edges.

Edges are where we arrive at a crossroads,
a decision to either soar high or dive deep.

Deep beneath the surface, roots reach downwards
gripping the soil like underground claws.

Claws of nature that tear apart the earth in vengeance
in quakes and along creases called fault lines.

Lines that run on our palms
claimed to be drawn by destiny, the artist.

The artist that splashed colour on the canvas,
like the peacock that proudly unfurled its feathers.

Feathers blown in the wind
voyage into the unknown like wisps of smoke.

Smoke that ascends and dissipates
a true vanishing act performed by air.

Air that dances through the trees dropping leaves once green
to shrivel to a golden brown, on this path.